


Five Stars In Our Crown

by apfelgranate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: Scout Harding has freckles.Tanani isn't quite sure why that realization takes a full minute to roll into her consciousness, slow and unavoidable and blinding like the sun pushing itself onto the sky.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Katana4544](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Katana4544/gifts).



> this soooort of turned into 5 things fic. i could not, however, for the life of me, tell you what the exact connecting thread is.

Scout Harding has freckles.

Tanani isn't quite sure why that realization takes a full minute to roll into her consciousness, slow and unavoidable and _blinding_ like the sun pushing itself onto the sky. When Scout Harding smiles, they move and stretch like someone took the night sky and tugged and crinkled it into new constellations.

"I have to admit," Scout Harding says, quietly, as Cassandra, Varric and Solas are already walking on, "I'm glad you're… um, you're you. Herald."

"Me?" Tanani asks. She's been walking on a cloud of helpless anger that fogs near every moment red and shifting, ever since she woke up in the prison cell. She can't imagine anyone is actually glad she is—well, herself.

Scout Harding shrugs and coughs, and her freckles shift into new constellations again. "You know, a dwarf," she explains. "Humans can be… well, you're probably familiar with that."

Tanani grimaces, remembering the shackles and the Seeker's hard, sharp face. "Yeah," she grunts. She looks at Scout Harding's hesitant smile, the encouragement in her eyes.

Well. Maybe it's not that bad, being her right now.

…

"Watch yourself out there," Scout Harding says, worry creasing her brow. "And I mean it, stay out of the water. Unless you want to go deal with way more undead than is reasonable per day."

"I can take care of myself," Tanani says, the sentence harsh and short, the stubborn defiance so automatic she couldn't hope to stop it. Harding's expression flickers.

"For my sake, then," she says, but her light tone rings hollow. "I'd hate to look for a new job, Inquisitor."

Bitterness settles in the pit of Tanani's stomach, and she wants to take it back, she didn't mean it—but she did mean it, and the words stick in her throat.

 _Be careful. I'm always careful. Take care of yourself_. _I'm not a goddamn child, Harding_ —

Finally, Tanani manages to bite down on the barked, indignant response.

"I'm sorry," she manages when hopefully no one else can hear them, all these big people with their big ideas and dreams and plans hustling around the two of them, Harding and Cadash standing in the eye of a hurricane.

"I've been acting like a bloody asshole. I don't—" She stares at the ground, crosses her arms, angry at herself, at Cassandra's fervent belief in the Herald of Andraste, at Varric's infuriatingly constant concern, at Solas's aloof, pained isolation, at the entire blighted world for putting her through this.

"I'm not used to having people who watch out for me, all right." She glances up at Harding. "So." She glances away. "Thank you. I really—thank you."

"Oh," Harding says, and that sound is so soft and sad it turns Tanani's head without her permission, makes her eyes find Harding's. And then, Harding reaches out and lightly touches Tanani's shoulder, her fingers a warm, gentle weight.

"Don't worry," she says, "I'll always watch your back."

…

" _What_ is _this_ ," Tanani nearly snaps, eyeing the cake that sits on Ambassador Josephine's desk with deep suspicion. Josephine and Leliana smile, unperturbed.

"I may have, ah, inquired," Josephine says, "after your tastes. You've been working quite hard, and I thought you might want a bit of rest and indulgence."

Tanani crosses her arms and glares. It would be easier if the cake was an Orlesian monstrosity, frill- and pearl-topped in outrageous colors like the ones they had served at the Winter Palace, but as it stands… It actually looks like food, and delicious food at that. The smell of cinnamon and apples and well-baked crust wafts into her nose. Her stomach, the traitor, rumbles audibly.

"Where have you 'inquired after my tastes'," she says, still glaring, though half-heartedly, at the cake.

"A little bird may have mentioned something, in passing," Leliana allows. "She also works quite hard, flitting to and fro in the service of the Inquisition. I saw her return earlier today, perhaps you two might share it?"

The damned cinnamon on the cake is spattered like—like freckles, and Tanani has already noticed three constellations that viciously remind her of Harding's cheeks when she smiles.

She can feel her own cheeks grow hot, and her ears, and the spot below her heart, suffusing her limbs with soft warmth. She feels… fond; and grateful, and flattered, and just a little overwhelmed. It's not a familiar feeling, but it's _good_.

She could get used to feeling like that.

…

Tanani can't sing to save her life, but, for that matter, neither can most others in the Sing-quisition. The upper floor of the tavern doesn't lend itself well to support choral acoustics, either.

But there is a special kind of sound that a dozen people in various stages of drunkenness trying to sing the same song manage to produce. It's discordant, and loud, and at the edges is something that sinks into the bloodstream without bothering to pass the ears. Tanani can feel it humming beneath her skin, in the bones of her ribs, shivering out of her throat like laughter.

Harding—no, _Lace_ —is sitting next to her, trying desperately to keep up with Faye's speedy rendition of _Twinkling Lucia of the Heavens_ , giggling every so often and swaying into Tanani's side. They have had beer and sweet mead; their tankards empty on the table beside them, spicy, honey-crusted meats, biscuits, company and song. Lace's hair has become loose and is now tumbling over her shoulders, tickling the side of Tanani's neck. There is so much of it, shining like polished copper in the flickering firelight.

"I could braid it again for you," she offers, thoughtless with the bloom of affection that trembles like the song deep in her chest. "I don't think I'll manage that complicated bun you usually have, but I can do a mean fishbone."

Lace laughs, mouth wide and gleaming, the scar on her cheek a crescent moon. "Yes," she says, turns to Tanani, lays her head on her shoulder. "Yes, please do."

Tanani has no Ancestors, and she never heard even the slightest of the Stone's whispers, but then and there she prays, fervently, silently, mind foggy with beer and sweetness, that moments like this one will find her again, over and over and over.

…

The coast is still frozen; the air is still full of winter's biting teeth. Tanani can barely feel her fingers where they're clamped tight around the hilts of her daggers.

But on her chest, below the armor, over her skin, to the left of her sternum—there is a warm spot. Surreptitiously, she tries to nudge the amulet Lace gave her back into place at the center of her chest.

"Whoa," Lace says behind her, "that was. That was something." Tanani looks over; sees Lace's flushed face, from cold and adrenaline, how her bow quivers in her hand. There's a jumble in Tanani's chest, the bitter cold, the warmth, the blood rushing, pumping, through her veins with a frenzy that is—

"Yeah," she croaks. She killed a god. They killed a god, to give him a good rebirth. They killed a god, and they are all alive, and Lace is by her side, smiling. Tanani shoves her daggers into their sheathes and reaches out and grasps Lace's hand, clutching it tight.

"You were." She flounders. "You are—amazing. You got him right in the blighted _eye_ , Lace, I—"

Why do words have to be so damn difficult sometimes? She grits her teeth, cheeks burning in the cold. Lace's face goes even redder, but she doesn't stop smiling.

"Y-yes?"

"I'm—I'm gonna kiss you now, is that all right?"

Lace doesn't say anything, but she exhales a cloudy puff of breath that sounds like a prayer and hits Tanani right in the face and then there are hands on her cheeks and Lace's freckles are so close she could count them one by one.

Somewhere behind them, Tanani can hear Sera and Varric hollering.


End file.
